Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Pen
“You’re beating it too hard.”
“I’ll have you know my beating technique is honed over years of experience.”
“I’m sure you like to think so, but there’s always room for improvement.”
“Would you’d like to take over here, Sweets? Because I’m not against witnessing your beating skills.”
“Nice try, buddy. Just don’t come crying to me when your cream comes out too thick.”
At this, August bursts out laughing. He’d been holding it in admirably while we pretended to bicker. So had I, but the damn has broken. I join him, doubling up against the counter where we’ve been trying to make dessert.
Jan, March, and the girls are out picking up barbecue for dinner; I’ve been promised a veritable feast of ribs and brisket.
When I’d asked about sides, I got a long, suffering look from the boys.
But after a lecture from March about how sides were superfluous in the presence of good barbecue, I was promised there would be some—if I so chose to fill up on needless carbs.
I’d offered to make dessert: fresh whipped cream piled on top of syrupy baked apples and a butter cookie crumble.
That was the idea, anyway. I’d tasked August with whipping the cream. In hindsight, a bit of a mistake.
His laugh rolls full and deep as tears of amusement make his eyes shine. In his hand is a whisk with cream sitting upon it like a fluffy white hat. The tip of it trembles as he snickers.
“Oh, sweet Penelope,” he sings with mirth. “Won’t you taste my cream?”
“Get out of here,” I say through actual giggles, and push the whisk threatening to coat my lips with his cream away. “Pervert.”
“I didn’t used to be. This must be a new you thing.”
Bare footed, dressed in a blue college T that stretches nicely over his chest and low-slung faded jeans, he looks happy and relaxed.
The sliding glass doors facing the kitchen are cracked open to the crisp evening air and the piney scent of fall drifts in.
Just beyond, the still waters of the lake shine silver in the moonlight.
“Give me that.” I take his whisk and the bowl. “We will not be having cream wars in your brother’s kitchen, thank you very much.”
Without warning, he clasps my waist and lifts me onto the counter. I land with a surprised squeak, and he chuckles, stepping in between my thighs to cup my cheek. In the warm glow of the kitchen, his eyes gleam like polished pewter. “Now, Penelope, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“It got kicked to the side by my sense of decorum.”
Even as I say it, my lips coast along his skin.
I love the strong column of his neck, how it’s sandy with his beard just under his jaw, then becomes silky and hot by his pulse.
I love how he shivers every time I kiss him there, and how he’ll inevitably tilt his head just enough to give me more access.
He does it now, his big hands kneading my hips as I kiss along that smooth, hot skin and lick his sensitive points. “Guess a little cream landed here,” I lie, licking him again.
August grunts, dipping his head to return the favor. His mouth opens over the curve of my neck. Gently, he sucks there. I feel it in shivering licks of sensation along my thighs, in my core.
“Pickle,” I warn, weakly.
“Hmm?” He nibbles his way back up my neck toward my ear. And I lean back to let him, my hand clutching the whisk tightly.
“Brother’s house . . .” It’s the saddest attempt at behaving ever. August cups my breast with a big, warm hand, fondling me in that way of his that makes me weak.
“Live dangerously, Sweets.” A husky plea as his head lowers to my collar, looking for a way in. He finds the first button and pops it free.
Oh, how I want him. I want that clever mouth to find all my swollen and eager places. But he’s seducing me too easily.
“August,” I say again, leaning in just a little, because, damn it, he’s tweaking my nipple now.
“Yes, Pen.” He doesn’t appear to really care what I’m saying at the moment. He’s got his hands full, after all.
I ease back just enough to break contact. He meets my gaze, his slumberous and carnal. I give him a long look over. “You got a spot . . .”
“A spot?” He frowns, slow-moving due to lust. I empathize. However . . .
“A spot,” I confirm. “Right . . . there!”
I dot his nose with the whipped cream–topped whisk, then, with a squeal, hop down and run for it.
“Just head right for the bedroom,” he calls from behind me. “We’re going to be a while.”
Giddy and laughing, I race that way, August hot on my heels. His deep laughter vibrates along my skin. I feel his breath on my neck, the nip of his fingers at my waist. But he doesn’t catch me. No, he’s herding me along, moving us exactly where we want to be.
Our route takes us right by the front hall. It’s a surprise, however, when the doorbell rings. My steps falter.
“Ignore it,” August says at my back. He’s got me now, swinging me up into his arms to kiss me swift and deep. The bell rings again.
“It’s Jan’s house,” I say against his lips. “We can’t leave it.”
“Jan isn’t even here,” he grumps.
But I’ve already slipped free, my sense of politeness prompting me to answer.
In retrospect, the ringing bell should have been our first hint of disaster.
After all, as with our houses, there’s a nice big gate to keep strangers out of January’s as well.
It stands to reason that whoever is ringing the actual doorbell at the very least has the code to get through the first barrier.
None of this occurs to me. And the very last thing I expect is to see my mother and his standing on the stoop and wearing twin expressions of impatience.
August comes skidding up behind me, his hand wrapping around my waist and pulling me back against his chest, then sliding under my shirt to palm my belly.
“Wait for me,” he chides with a laugh, burrowing his face in my hair. “God, you’re slippery.” He suddenly catches sight of our parents and freezes.
“August,” Margo says. “Penelope.”
“Babies!” my mother exclaims happily.
With a dramatic shudder, August looks around at the air above him as though searching for something. He notices us staring and gives himself a little shake. “Sorry, I could have sworn I heard the Psycho music playing just now.”
Biting my lip, I turn my head to avoid meeting anyone’s eye.
Margo’s droll voice is unmistakable. “You see what I deal with, Anne? I raised five kids, and every one of them a smart-ass.”
My mom shakes her head in sympathy.
August, however, decides to poke the bear and places a hand over his heart with a wounded expression. “But, Ma, it’s what you told us to do!”
“Oh, I told you?”
He gives her an angelic smile. “You were always saying, don’t be a dumbass. Ergo it stands to reason . . .” Smile growing, he spreads his arms as if to say, and here we are.
There’s a small beat, one in which I fear for August’s life, but then Margo barks out a laugh, and shakes her head. “And every one of you got your father’s charm. Damn it.”
She steps in, and August ducks his head to give her cheek a kiss. “But I got the most, didn’t I, Ma?”
“Sure, honey.” She pulls him close and gives him a long hug before mussing his head. “Smart-ass.”
“Just like you taught me.”
“Hmm. You have whipped cream on the tip of your nose.”
I have the pleasure of seeing August blush bright red.
“Oh, dear,” Mom murmurs. The wicked gleam in her eyes tells me she’s enjoying the hell out of it.
August grimaces, and I burst out laughing. He gives me a look that promises creative payback, and in return, I grin with glee. That is until my mother’s droll tone breaks through my high humor with all the dryness of desert sand.
“Your blouse is unbuttoned, Penny Lane.”
Shit.
August
“And as usual,” says my father from the drive, “I’ve got the bags.”
I empathize.
Pen, however, utters a mortified gasp and quickly turns toward me to button up her shirt, as Dad trudges up the stairs. She flashes me a death glare that promises retribution. But I can only grin. I’m not the one who started a cream war.
All right, so I am the one who started taking off her shirt. Maybe I do deserve the glare. I kiss the crown of her head in penitence.
“You’re a big strong man,” my mother is deadpanning to my father. “A few bags won’t kill you.”
“Woman, I’ve the knees of an eighty-year-old.”
“I’ll remember that later, when you—”
“Hey, Pop,” I cut in quickly. “Let me get those.” Anything not to hear about “later.”
He gives me a smug look and tosses all three bags my way. With a grunt, I accept my fate, adjusting my grip, then stepping aside to let them in.
“Caught them fooling around, did you?” he says to Mom and Anne with a grin that is way too familiar.
If anyone ever wants to know how I’ll age in thirty-odd years, they need only take a look at my father.
I’ve got no complaints. He’s fit and strong—despite his whining.
His once dark hair is now steel colored but thick and full.
All of us boys look like him. Sure, there are some differences, but overall the gene pool is potent on the Luck side.
Pen turns a lovely shade of pink and refuses to meet anyone’s gaze.
While her mother scoffs. “I thought this engagement thing was supposed to be a charade.”
“It is,” Pen hisses, still put out from being half undressed. “At least the engagement part.”
She’s been very insistent on clarifying that lately.
And can I blame her? There is a huge difference between being engaged and being .
. . whatever it is we are. What are we, exactly?
I like to say she’s mine and I’m hers. Period.
And I don’t really think she’s angling for marriage or upset that there isn’t one forthcoming.
No, it’s that damn lie that brought us together still haunting us in subtle ways.